At the hospital, I sent one of my colleagues a text page:
“Do u know the name of that fancy Italian restaurant downtown?”
One of my partners called me back,
“Oh yeah, that’s [fancy Italian restaurant].”
“Thanks. Amy and I are going out tonight, it’s our anniversary.”
A couple years ago, I completely forgot about our wedding anniversary. But I lucked out, because Amy forgot too. We were reminded when her friend sent us a card. It was a busy year with the kids and we laughed about it.
“Congrats. Hey, I wanted to let you know - Dr. Gulag isn’t seeing any new patients today - too tired post-call. Dr. Turtle is running behind, so he’s out. I’m out too…. Is that okay with you?”
What she left unsaid was the painful part - “You are going to see any and all the new patients that come into the hospital today. You’re on your own.”
“Oh. Sure.”
Click.
But it’s our anniversary.
Sink.
I rounded on very old patients with halved heart function, their lungs drowning in years worth of tears. A large tattooed man my age with girlfriend problems seeking serenity with ten Seroquel and two fifths. A withering widow lost in webs of dementia and phlegm. An old trembling husband kissing the hand of his multiply resistant-organism infected wife. Geriatric couples leaning on each other like playing cards, unable to stand without the other. Love when you’re young is about having fun. When you’re old it’s about supporting each other, in the most literal and mortal sense. Those vows of “in sickness” and “unto death do you part” are actually supposed to mean something. Most of us need a better half.
“Where do you want to go tonight? How about [fancy Italian restaurant]?” I called Amy.
“No, I want to go to [small hole in the wall place]. I like it.”
“Really? Alright.”
Cheap date.
I called to see if I could set a reservation.
“No reservations here. It’s first come, first serve,” the hostess answered.
I got home later than I wanted to. My mom watched the kids while we went out.
It was freezing and snowy. Amy hooked her arm around mine in that old-fashioned way.
Amy got this buttered scallops dish that the waittress recommended. She was MMMMM’ing so much, it sounded like a Rachel Ray impression on its way toward that restaurant scene in When Harry Met Sally.
“What are you drinking? Are you drunk?” I had to ask her.
“No, this is so good. Try it.”
She’s usually picky about food. She finds one thing she likes at one place and every other version of it sucks thereon. When I tease her about that, she replies with, “Yeah, good thing for you that I’m like that,” and I laugh.
I liked her green shirt. Her hair looked nice but different. A little more streamlined with waves at the end. She always looks a little different and more interesting to me. Something in her softens with age, and her sense of humor deepens. It’s a transformation that slowly seems to keep pulling me closer.
“Oh, I didn’t blow dry it today. I just wrapped it up in a curler.” Or some female technical jargon like that.
We talked a little about funny things at work. About amusing things the kids did or said. Our touchstones of the heart.
“7:40 already?”
On the ride home, we silently contemplated the serial of our lives together.
“Let’s try for another nine more years, baby,” Amy laughed.
Absolutely, and with no reservations.
